My beautiful messy storytelling life
There is a simple truth about our culture that can only be found in the midst of suffering. When great things happen, we rejoice, when good things happen we celebrate, from our normal mundane living, well, we escape, and when bad things happen, we generally do our best to avoid the pain.
And this rampant avoidance applies not only to ourselves, but those around us as well. It’s only when you are smack dab in the middle of pain do you see, really see, as if you had special goggles, how uncomfortable everyone else is with it.
Ever notice how people are afraid of catching pain? It’s as if divorce, depression or death were viral. So instead of leaning in and being present in the messy, we stuff it, hide it, and put on the Christian happy face. We all too quickly forget that joy in Christ doesn’t mandate a perpetual façade of gooey sweetness.
We avoid the old folk’s home, complain about the smell, hide from the abandoned wife at church, and quarantine ourselves away from illness, regardless if it is contagious. We sanitize empathy down to a Get Well card or some flowers and remain aloof from intimate relationship in the darkest moments. Genuine and heartfelt mourning seems to be so passé, as if they were thrown away with the old traditions of widows wearing black and communal lamenting
My husband has a dear friend who is extremely ill, and the other day, they had a long visit in the hospital. By my husband’s own admission, it was a visit that was long overdue. My husband didn’t want to admit or acknowledge that his friend wasn’t doing well, because it was easier to live in the land of hope, where everything remained in the status quo. Fortunately, another friend intervened, and he was forced to confront both his own avoidance and the reality of the situation.
Somehow my husband missed out on the blog that his friend started. It’s an online journal, that keeps his friends and family updated on his condition, and though it chronicles his physical journey with cancer, it also gives voice to his spiritual battle with this unseen and vicious enemy attacking his blood.
After recalling his emotional day, my husband mentioned that his friend noticed an unusual occurrence with his blog. When he updates positive news on his status, the comments and prayers come in abundance, but when the news is dire, which has been more the case recently, very few if any comments show up in the guest book.
Why is it that our praises seem to dry up when circumstances go down the drain? And when there are no words left, we conveniently disappear, because suffering interferes with our busy agendas. Mourning, compassion, empathy… the sheer ability to be present in the Valley of the Shadow of Death with anyone, even sometimes those closest to us, seems desperately lacking in our society.
When I look at Middle Eastern culture, I envy their ability to emote, to wail like banshees and cry and grieve with passion. It seems so much more acceptable to feel emotions. The tough guy American demeanor never drops a tear. It’s probably why I always apologize when I cry, as if tears were an affront to good manners.
Is it our fear of the dark, of death and the unknown that causes us to push away and to hide? Could any temporary relief of an awkward moment or an uncomfortable confrontation ever be worth the loneliness and abandonment of those dear to us?
Yesterday my husband wept, prayed and laughed with his dear friend. The cancer was only a reason for their relationship to grow deeper. They mourned and looked to Christ, unsure of His plan, with unanswered questions and heavy hearts, but resolute in their double fisted faith of a Holy and mysterious God.
They were precious moments, stolen and sweet, because time has become like gold as the shadow deepens. These were moments of friendship, based on eternal brotherhood and bonds forged on Christ’s sacrifice.
And so my husband’s friend has hit on a profound truth, we are a culture of avoiders when it comes to pain. And as the lines between heaven and earth blur for him, clarity comes like waves as he assesses his life.
The Psalmist proclaims that “though weeping may last for a night, joy comes with the dawn.” (Psalm 30:5)
True joy, it seems, can only be discerned on the other side of the deepest pain. For how would we recognize the light if we had avoided the dark?
Rom. 12:5 (NIV) Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn
Christmas Eve was a day of perpetual mishaps. The best laid plans were best laid to rest…because chaos reigned supreme.
The older kids were at Grandma’s and it was time to rendezvous with my parents to bring them home. And so my little one hour jaunt turned into Gilligan’s three hour tour. The baby and I set off and not fifteen minutes into my journey, I heard a strange clicking and within seconds a loud bang erupted from under the car and the front tire on my Xterra exploded off the rim.
My car shuddered ominously, which happens when you are traveling at 75 mph, and so, I prayed, wailed and held on for dear life. Fortunately, I managed to pull over, traffic rushing by me on the toll road, and rolled into a small inlet off the side of the road. All this happened as I was “multi-tasking” on my cell phone to my husband who heard the whole fiasco on speaker-phone.
Ever the Eagle Scout, my husband told me to sit tight and he would be there shortly. Thirty minutes later, he pulled up. We moved the baby into his car, he pulled out the jack, and off I set again to bring back our kids from Grandma’s.
After giving him a big kiss, I left my husband on the side of the road changing the tire. Only fifteen minutes later, we were diverted off the toll road because of mud slide damage from the recent storms. After a thirty minute alternate route, we finally got back on track.
Then the crying started. I had left the baby’s bottle at home in my haste to pick up the kids, and baby was hungry. Already an hour late for the pick-up, I had no time to stop for food, so in my best soothing voice I kept repeating, over and over, “Just a few more minutes baby. “
Then the next freeway closure hit from storm damage, and once again we were re-routed for another thirty minute detour.
As we pulled up to meet my father, two hours late for our pick-up, I pulled a hysterical baby out the car. On the verge of tears myself, my dad rushed us over to Chili’s for some R & R. As I quickly made the baby a bottle, sad little sobs erupted and her body shook with frustration.
As I handed the baby a makeshift bottle, she leaned back in my arms, looked deep into my eyes and said “Thank You.”
This is my eleven month old baby. An exhausted, starving baby who had endured suffering for the first time in her life, and her response when finally fed was to say, “Thank You.”
She didn’t hit me, turn away in anger, refuse to eat, or play passive aggressive baby. She simply took the food and thanked me.
I reflected on the last time, or any time for that matter, that I had thanked God for the circumstances in my life that tested my spirit and lead to patient endurance. Just thanked him for the character defining moments I hate because I am forced to grow, despite my unwillingness to change.
My baby inherently knows what I often forget…to have a childlike trust in God, a simple dependence, and a thankful heart.
Then the little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
I am a survivor of Christmas overload. Seven parties in seven days, and three more to go. There should be medals for this kind of dedication to frivolity.
I love parties. I love Christmas. But I don’t love the exhausted, bloated feeling that goes along with the Christmas party. Call me undisciplined, fallacious even…but night after night of decadent temptation starts to crumble the walls of careful self-preservation and eventually, caution is thrown to the wind, carbs are embraced, and the culinary delights of the season are succumbed to.
Christmas is such a strange animal. People overeat, overspend, and drink too much for a solid month, leaving them pudgy, broke and hung over by New Years. Entitlement aside, deep down, we all know that Christmas doesn’t have to be this gluttonous and yet setting boundaries on fun proves to be much easier said than done.
It’s not an obvious seduction, like drugs or illicit compromise; true Christmas party overload is inherently subtle. It’s one sip of wine at a time, two late nights justified, then three more. It’s going back for seconds at the buffet table and avoiding the gym because there is “just so much to do.” Bustle, bustle, justify, justify…and then, all of sudden you can’t zip up your pants.
If someone offers me a cigarette, it’s easy to say no because I am not a smoker, nor do I intend to be one, but when it’s your mother pushing the most divine pecan pie known to man, the boundaries start to blur…a lot.
Moderation seems to be the obvious solution, when we veer towards excess, but it’s a tough sell to say no to “just one more” party, the last cookie in the office basket and the mocha swirl sample at Starbucks.
The Grinch said it well, “Maybe Christmas, doesn’t come from a store, perhaps maybe Christmas, means a little bit more.”
And so, maybe contentment at Christmas parties comes with less and not more, maybe finding the “more” is simply saying “no more.”
I started to cook again this week.
Food and the preparation of said food, i.e. – cooking, is an uncanny indicator in my life regarding the true state of my heart. If my spirit is peaceful, cooking seems amusing and diverting, but if my soul is weary and overwrought, the very same task feels like a loathsome chore.
In the Christian world, it’s common to hear the wise and mature folk ask younger leaders, “So dear, where are you at spiritually?”
And my response would be, “well, my kids had a frozen TV dinner consisting of macaroni with a side of zapped peas last night.” Translation…my cup over runneth with too much activity and my kids are getting neglected again in the kitchen realm.
It’s such a vague question, really, when considering the totality of a human being, this “Christianise” vernacular of “where are you at spiritually,” as if we could point to a spot on the map or a quadrant and define our status. Call me complex or multi-faceted as my friend Krista likes to say, but who, in all reality, could ever chart the condition of their heart on a graph?
Husband (9), kids(8), writing(7), cooking(2), status of garage(-10), ministry (7) health (5) workouts(3), quiet times (5), time for friends(1), time for me(-5), talks with God (7), rest(1), work (5), sex life(well, that’s private)
My graph would make Jack’O Lantern teeth; consistent only in the up and down, ebb and flow…of highs and lows and in and outs. Nothing static…but a tornado of emotions, physical peaks and valleys, and spiritual growth and setbacks all tumbled together under the umbrella of God’s grace.
My points average out to about 2, which puts me right back to cooking.
These days, it’s popular for food to be referenced as a metaphor for emotional undercurrents. Cooking is suggested as an alternate form of therapy, sometimes revenge, and even self-punishment.
I thought I was above using food as a weapon, but I was clearly wrong, because the first thing I did when my husband recently traveled for a week was to go directly to the store and buy all the food he doesn’t like or approve of.
My shopping cart resembled the chocolate river from Willy Wonka; peppermint Jo Jo’s, peppermint chunk mocha sipping chocolate, chocolate dipped strawberries, and Swedish dark chocolate. The checker looked at me with disdain, a subtle suggestion that maybe my chocolate binge was hormonal. I stared back belligerently.
It was passive aggressive at best…a defiant move that asserted my sense of self apart from my husband. Call me crazy, but sometimes, I need those little moments for my soul to scream out, “I am woman. A chocolate fiend of a woman. Hear me roar.”
Notwithstanding the chocolate fiasco, my life has begun to calm down lately. Rest has moved up the graph and peace has burst through the dam of exhaustion.
So, where am I at spiritually?
Well, last week my girls and I ate pork-chops with mango papaya salsa and green bean casserole, Lasagna and salad with fruit and pear-gorgonzola dressing, salmon with chocolate mole sauce, and divine home-made turkey soup from Thanksgiving left-over’s.
Translation…my spirit is fruitful with a little dash of spice, dark, meaty and sweet, sometimes nostalgic and often saucy.
Maybe that’s why God gave us manna, asks us to fast in prayer, and calls himself the “bread of life,” because somehow our spirits are mysteriously and deeply intertwined with food. No pun intended…but maybe we really are what we eat.
My baby said the word “uncle” today. That’s pretty good for a ten-month old tyke, if I do say so myself. But, ironically, she didn’t say it to my brother, and my husband only has one sister. The momentous words were directed specifically towards my ex-husband, now known as “Uncle Bert.” Welcome to our dysfunctional family.
If “sin” is missing the mark, than “divorce” is a rupture of the spirit. No one gets married anticipating an excruciating dedomiciling, but life happens, choices are made, and sometimes the best couples separate. Our sin nature permeates what God intended to be a beautiful symbol of the relationship between Christ and the Church. The only problem with this lovely metaphor is that people, in all their flaws and selfishness, are part of the equation.
And so we screw up that which was meant to be Holy. Families are ripped apart. Children blow out and bitterness sets in. The lovely bride of Christ is alone, scared and forced to forge ahead into a wilderness of singled exile.
But after the drama recedes, the settlements are fought over, and the custody battle reasonably determined…the fragments of a family must be reassembled. Two roads can be taken-either the road to more disparateness or the less traveled road to what I like to call “functional dysfunction.”
Right before I remarried, my then fiance and I were urged to attend blended family counseling. So, off we trotted to hear words that didn’t settle so well in our self-righteous little paradigm. Because I was the abandoned spouse, my demeanor towards my ex was patronizing at best. I had anger buried deep in my heart and my hostility was only fueled with every poor decision my ex-husband made.
But the counsel we received forced us to reconsider, reflect and move in a counter-cultural direction. We were told that our relationship with my ex-husband would determine our relationship with the children. Our love for their father would be an indirect method of communicating love to them. And that every natural tendency to push him away would only end up shooting us and our children in the foot.
Thus followed a year of moving towards the very thing I wanted to run from. I stopped arguing, stopped sniping, and moved at my ex-husband with brotherly love. When he lost his car, my husband and I made a committment to help drive him to our kid’s games and practices so he could continue coaching our son in football. Leaving work early three days a week to pick up my ex-husband did not come naturally. Every trip was laced with prayer and surrender, but God was moving and my heart slowly softened. As my husband drove him home some night’s after practice, their relationship grew stronger as well.
Later that year, my ex-husband remarried and his wife invited us for a shared Father’s Day celebration. It was a sweet acknowledgement that the war had ceased and two broken pieces were fusing into one reconstructed family, albeit … larger and messier than before.
Now, almost three years later, we have established what I like to call a good working relationship in the parenting realm. We think of my ex-husband as our brother, and care for him like he is a part of the family. Accepting the good and bad as we would any sibling ,and loving the way Christ loves us, without restrictions for our frailties.
I can honestly say my heart has changed, slowly and unwillingly at times, but the process has allowed me to walk free of the burden that so heavily weighed me down for years. And so our new baby, the child of my second marriage, has a new “Uncle” and a big confusing family that someday we will have to explain.
“Sweetheart, your sister’s daddy is your uncle.” Yeah, I can’t wait for that conversation.
But, in God’s economy it seems to make perfect sense!
First published on Everyday Christian Nov 18th, 2010
Many years ago, back in the heyday of college, some friends and I traveled to South Bend, Ind., to see the campus of Notre Dame, and hopefully catch a peek of the Fighting Irish‘s football stadium. After sweet-talking the groundskeeper, he generously allowed us to run through the hallowed tunnel from the movie “Rudy,” and burst out onto the field.
Squealing and delighted to have accomplished our covert mission, we pretended to throw footballs and run plays until we caught sight of the mural of Jesus, just to the left and behind the scoreboard.There it was… Touchdown Jesus!
A hush fell over our group. Though I knew little of God at the time, the sacredness of the space caused a chill down my spine. I felt like Moses standing on Holy ground, in awe of what my spirit perceived, but did not yet know. Our antics ceased as we soberly exited the venerated field.
I had no idea at the time how much the two realms of football and Jesus would intersect in my own life. Years later, my 12-year-old son is now a gifted athlete playing football for a nationally- ranked team, heading for the West Coast Conference and then, Lord willing, on to Florida to play in the Pop Warner Football National competition. My husband, a pastor, will be accompanying him. It is a strange fusion, God and football, and yet for us, it has become our new normal.
While football has many critics, and negative attention has more recently dominated the news because of concerns about concussions and their long-term affects; that which is uplifting and noble cannot be overlooked. And, while few would debate that brute force is a large part of the game, there is much more beyond the obvious testosterone and aggression than meets the eye.
In many ways, a great football team is a metaphor for the spiritual battle we face in the fight against good and evil. Not unlike Christian, in Pilgrim’s Progress, my son and his team-mates pursue football greatness with the same determination as Christian on his journey to the Celestial City.
My son’s team, the RSM Pee Wee Titans, train relentlessly. They are well disciplined and wear the appropriate uniform, or what I like to call “armour” for the battle. They study film intently, and play by play, make corrections and adjustments. They diligently research and know their opponents long before the game.
Their coaches are not only well-versed in strategy, but loving mentors and teachers, leading the boys with both grace and truth. They live, eat, and breathe, the game. The team is placed higher than the individual, and all sacrifice one for each other. There is a deep sense of respect among the boys and coaches, as they continually push one another to new levels of performance.
Watching the boys is like viewing an intricate dance. It is harmony in motion. The angels sing and the trumpets play. These are the moments in life, far and few between, when heaven and earth intersect. When athletes play the way God intended, when a team moves in a cadence and rhythm distinct from the pack, and football in its purest form-is revealed.
Last week, before the League Championship, the boys knelt down and prayed. They did it on their own cognizance, no adult around, just a group of eleven and twelve year old boys simply praying for courage and honor, and that God would be with them through the blood, sweat and tears.
And so Touchdown Jesus has become a part of our vernacular…God and football, prayers and the O Line, a blend of the sacred and the secular, and a beautiful picture of little warriors gearing up for a spiritual battle.
Ephesians 6:14-17 (NIV) … Therefore put on the full amour of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled round your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
Article first published as Stranded at Sea…Leave Your Fishing Pole at Home on Technorati.
My interest has been peaked, like most Americans, as the passengers of the Carnival Splendor cruise ship, finally disembark in San Diego Harbor after a four-day ordeal of being stranded at sea and then towed back to shore. One comment in particular caught my eye chronicling a pair of traveling Honeymooners because my own husband and I celebrated our Honeymoon in a similar fashion.
Here is what the bride’s father– Paul Patrick, who purchased the trip as a gift to the newlyweds, had to say about their interrupted vacation.“They’re hungry, very hungry and very eager to get off this ship,” Patrick said. “You can’t ruin a honeymoon, but this came close.” He added: “My son-in-law wishes he’d brought his fishing pole. What else can you do four days on the sea?”
Now, I don’t debate that they are hungry, I mean eating spam sandwiches pretty much stinks, but I do have an issue with the next line. What else can you do for four days on the sea? Ummmm… how about have sex?
Now that might sound crass, but if the couple had walked down a road of purity before marriage, their “ruined” trip might have been a fantastic reason to stay in bed and revel in the joys of intimacy, designed by God for marriage.
Oh, it’s such a sad story. The poor husband wishes he had brought his fishing pole to fight off boredom. When my husband and I traveled to the Mediterranean for our Honeymoon and cruised the seas on the Norwegian Jade for 12 days, we did some fishing all right, and strangely enough it didn’t involve any fish (though there was a fantastic sushi bar on the Jade that we enjoyed). After waiting for almost a year and a half to be sexually intimate, we practically skipped down the aisle and into each other’s arms.
This is the difference between shacking up, premarital sex, and all the compromise the world tells you is great…it steals the joy of true intimacy. It robs the bride and groom of a night to remember. It makes four days at sea with your beloved… a yawning bore.
I can always tell the difference at weddings. It’s obvious to me if the bride and groom have had premarital sex. It’s all about the “event” for the jaded bride, it’s a rite of passage, and a big hoopla over the details. For the couple who choose to be pure, it’s all about the relationship. You can tell in their eyes, their smile, their posture…they have waited for a true treasure and they will celebrate and protect something so valuable.
I know the difference. My first marriage started and ended in compromise. But, the next time, God was gracious and gave me a second chance to walk down the path of purity, restoration and healing. When I married my darling husband, a Godly man and a pastor, I knew he loved me for my heart and not for how I made him feel physically. Our relationship, though by no means perfect, stands on a foundation of trust.
So, though I am truly sad for the vacationing Honeymooners whose trip was derailed, when my husband and I slip away for our next cruise, the “Please Do Not Disturb Sign,” will proudly hang on our door!
It seems like it always happens this time of year, fall burn-out sets in. Not just general weariness, but pure debilitating fatigue that has tenuous layers of emotional, spiritual and physical exhaustion. If you scratch the surface, of a parent or child in this state, you just might get more than you bargained for. Raw emotions lurk underneath the realm of the over achievers façade.
It finally dawned on me last week at the mall just how spent I was. The sky was dumping rain and my family was ecstatic. Wet fields meant a reprieve from the kids’ grueling sports schedule. So after almost five hours at church, we headed off for some much-needed sustenance and a little retail therapy…my older daughter’s love language. After pigging out at Ruby’s, my daughter begged to go to Justice for girls, a shop geared for hip tweens and enabling mothers.
So in we trooped to Justice; the baby sleeping in her stroller, my daughter shrieking at the totally cute jeggings, my son running off to Tilly’s and my husband, well…I don’t actually remember where he went. And that’s when I saw it, a music video playing on one of the ten screens placed around the store appealing to the ADHD crowd featuring Taylor Swift. I should have walked away, knowing how utterly prone I was to an emotional hijacking, but I fell for the romance and escape of it all. And so, in my highly fragile state, I was sucked in to Taylor’s compelling story-telling lyrics.
Alas, it was a woeful tale of a child abandoned by her father, and than growing up scared that her own husband would repeat the abandonment of her youth. So there I stood in Justice, a cacophony of mall buzz all around me, and I lost it. Tears began to pour down my face, big gulpy sobs for poor little Taylor’s heart, and I felt a deep well of emotion erupt from my soul. For a moment, the world stopped and I just reveled in the release.
This is what fall burn-out does. It takes high functioning adults, exhausted from work, kids, and sport’s playoffs and on and on… and turns them to mush, in places like Justice, no less. I realized this was a red-light symptom indicating that my cup might be overrunning with too many blessings and leading to detrimental burn-out, not just the tiredness that makes me long for summer and more languid days. So, I added up all the things we are involved in right now as a family. Then I looked long and hard at the list and did a little reflecting.
Pastoral ministry, running a church, leading 2 Rooted groups, teaching 2 bible studies, a career in tech sales, freelance writing, 2 online magazines, 1 blog, 2 acting classes, fall baseball, cheerleading, Mini Pearls(kids cancer research), Jr. High youth group, commuting 2 hours a day, 3 kids(1 of them a teething baby), no sleep, attempted exercise, running a women’s ministry, school, homework, a football team heading for the West Coast Conference, fantasy football commissioner, and oh yes…another fantasy team, friends, kids friends, family obligations, cheer team mom, little scholar football rep, football chain volunteer, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and oh yeah…trying to remain spiritual, read the Bible, pray, and be blessed to be a blessing.
Just my schedule alone is something like 140 hours a week. That leaves me with an average of about 4 hours of sleep a night. Quite frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t lost it at the Grocery Store or maybe even driven my car into the grocery store.
What the hell am I thinking?
The scary part is that I am pretty sure I am not alone in my race to accomplish, achieve, and appear busy. All of my friends are overwhelmed too. Sometimes I feel guilty for watching TV, annoyed at my husband when he takes time out to play, and frustrated that I don’t have more time to accomplish another 400 items. Sounds a little more like Martha than Mary, and that makes me sad because I want to be more like Mary. But, in all reality, we live in a Martha world and sitting on the floor like Mary at Jesus’ feet is counter-cultural. It takes an inordinate effort to swim against the current of identity defined by productivity.
What is this psychotic expectation of achievement that we have all bought into? I thought I could confidently say that I found my meaning and significance in Christ, but if I am honest, my agenda belies my statement of faith. Rest doesn’t feel like rest anymore, it’s more a catatonic expression of paralysis. Too tired to move, too tired to talk, we zone out and veg.
I think it’s time to stop the madness and climb off the hamster wheel. The hard part is figuring out how not to get thrown off the wheel. The world sucks you in and then spits you back out. Oh, but my inner hamster both loves and hates the wheel. While I want to jump off it’s also scary to think of not running so fast.
There’s an old saying that comes to mind…if the devil can’t make you sin, then he’ll make you busy.
So busy, that I imagine he has a field day with us when our defenses are down.
Last night my car broke down. Not that it’s ever convenient to have car problems, but I was parked behind a high school, deep in an isolated canyon with nothing but tarantulas and mountain lions around for miles. My son was one of the last kids off the football field after a late practice and as he hopped in, I heard a clicking sound instead of the engine coming to life. It sounded like a dead battery.
Fortunately, one of the mom’s also exiting saw my waving hand and stopped. She sent her husband home for the jumper cables and we hung out in the cold night, with growling stomachs, kids running around and the baby howling along with the coyotes for a bottle. Shockingly, a few last stragglers walked by and observed our little woebegone party-two women, three children and a baby standing around a car with the hood open, obviously in distress, and not one of them stopped or asked if we needed help.
It’s a story told all too often in our society… of people passing by and not heeding the call of those in distress. Now obviously we weren’t in imminent danger, and we did not ask for help, but the other mom seemed pretty indignant that we were ignored.
I would suggest that their lack of concern is more normal than not, and I am generally more surprised when people do offer assistance. Heroic acts these days are few and far between, and when they do occur, somebody probably has a video to capture it for YouTube. Because, when nobody else is looking, when the credits don’t roll, it’s just too easy to turn our eyes away and pretend not to notice. Ignorance is bliss right?
The Darwinist mentality seems to have pervaded our culture so deeply that survival of the fittest means we overlook the ageing, disabled and stranded. What this reveals about our society is a startling lack of compassion and an indication that somewhere along the way we have learned to care more for ourselves than for the greater good.
I know that if I am honest, my own heart is inherently selfish and my gut reaction is rarely to stop what I am doing, surrender my agenda, and dive into the need at hand. More often, I feel a tug in my spirit, choose to heed or ignore the nudge, and then usually, but not always, try to help.
When I look at the ministry of Jesus, I am struck by how the interruptions of need seemed to define his entire ministry. He did more healing, teaching and revelation in the unplanned moments than any organized preaching. His agenda seemed to incorporate the unplanned and invite the messy in.
And so, I am challenged to create space in my life for the unexpected, the things I can’t put in my agenda but may define my identity far more than my busy schedule.
The journey of compassion is the road less traveled. It whispers to look beyond ourselves and glimpse that which is sacred. It loves our neighbor simply for loves sake.
That’s the message I want to teach my kids. It’s the banner I want to wear across my own heart. To never be so busy that I can’t stop, engage in humanity, and get my hands a little bit dirty.
But if your car breaks down…my help might consist of a little company and a cell phone. Mechanics are just not my gift!
